


Judging Our Differences

by Sourwoif



Series: Working Out Differences: On the Run [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Attempted Rape, Cop Derek Hale, Criminal Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Stiles and Isaac are Vigilantes, Vigilantism, au everyone is human, partners in crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-09-25 23:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9851666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourwoif/pseuds/Sourwoif
Summary: So, he slept with a cop. He hadn'tmeantto sleep with a cop. Certainly not right after murdering a proven rapist and dumping his corpse in a dumpster. He wasn't perfect, who was?





	1. Noticing a Difference

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be a continuation of the original oneshot, "Working Out Differences". This fic starts right afterwards, so I'd recommend reading the first one before you migrate over. For those who have, hello! I've been dead a while, I have returned from the grave.
> 
> I love hearing suggestions of where you'd like the plot to go, and I'll greatly consider them. Nothing's set in stone.

            Barely a minute after the cop’s car peeled out of the parking lot, Stiles jolted out of the bed and shoved on his clothes. Just his luck, he crawled into bed with a fucking _cop_.

            Not that cops were bad- his dad was a cop. They were just inefficient, dragged down by bureaucracy, the red tape limiting them from being any real help. Due process was great and all, and _yeah,_ it theoretically was supposed to work beautifully- but it didn’t. In fact, due process worked off the assumption that the people making the decision were unbiased. Newsflash: that’s complete bullshit. Never in his adult life (granted that was only five years, give or take) had Stiles met someone completely immune from judgement. As soon as a pair of eyes can see, judgement was a skill that began leveling up. You judge the safety, the status, the risks- and you can’t turn that off.

            He did rummage through the guy’s fridge, because vigilante work was hard. And so was walking on shaky legs after last night. The noise that escaped him was best described as the purest manifestation of disappointment.

            This guy was a health freak: stacks of lean cut, uncooked organic chicken breast and grass-fed beef, bottles of purified mountain river water lined his fridge door, and, and- was that a _tub of spinach?!_

            Stiles slammed the fridge shut with a disgusted spasm, turning away and not bothering to look through the rest of the kitchen.

            “It was never gonna work out anyway,” He muttered to himself, snatching his jacket from the ceiling fan and stalking out of the apartment. This walk of shame was only shameful because he’d let his common sense be blinded by the six-pack of a deliciously hot health-freak cop.

 

* * *

 

            The shoddy apartment with no down payment was a serious stepdown, and returning to it made him miss the impeccably clean apartment of Health Cop. He refused to use the guy’s name, it would get him attached. He had a bad habit of mooning over the pretty ones.

            “I haven’t seen you limp like that since we were in Texas.” Isaac’s smart mouth was twisted in a smirk, his arms stretched back over the couch. Isaac back before ten in the morning? He hadn’t gotten any dick last night after all.

            “Struck out?” Stiles bypassed the other and went straight for the kitchen. Whenever he lingered, Isaac started profiling him. He didn’t want to give it away that he’d fucked up.

            “Yeah but… Not too sad about it,” Isaac had this stupid look on his face. With the cherub curls and those big eyes crinkling, it gave Stiles a sick feeling. Ugh. “I know we usually leave after a hit- I mean, it’s New York. There’s a bigger ratio, we should stick around some more.”

            “Oh god.” He slammed shut the cupboard and whirled around, “You want to date him!”

            “No! I just want to get a feel for the city, maybe even…”

            “You want to have his caramel skinned babies and marry him!”

            “No I don’t!” Isaac growled, but his cheeks were red and his shoulders were defensively stiff. Stiles groaned and slapped a hand over his eyes. It was bound to happen. Five years was too long of a lucky streak, it had to go to shit eventually. The hazards of having a partner was the risk of something new distracting one of them.

            “Isaac, we can’t,” Stiles switched his tactic, “It’s too risky man, we live twenty minutes from the last hit. This is New York, not some tiny ass town with the police force of a whopping three people. They have some of the best forensics, hundreds of officers, and- and spies!”

            “What did you do?” Isaac barely missed a beat, his embarrassment abating in favor of suspicion.

            “Do? What do you mean do? I didn’t do anything,” Stiles rambled, immediately looking anywhere but Isaac’s piercing gaze.

            “Let me phrase it a bit differently.” Isaac stood up and started walking towards the other, “Where did you stick that hilarious excuse of dick, and who was it? Because between now and then you’ve only had enough time to fuck one, possibly two people.”

            “I take offense to that statement.”

            “Stiles,” Isaac snapped, the joking atmosphere long gone, “What the _fuck_ did you do?!”

            “Fine!” He threw his hands up, “I fucked a cop from the club last night, and he eats organic chicken breasts and grass-fed beef and- I fucked up! Happy?”

            “Shit.” Isaac let out a shaky breath. This was bad. Almost as bad as what Stiles had pulled in Quantico. “He saw your face?”

            “No, Isaac, from the club to his apartment, his face was in my ass and he never bothered looking up,” Stiles retorted, no lack of irritation in the statement. “He saw my face and pretty much every square inch of my body.”

            “Oh, my god,” And there was the dramatic seat plop that Isaac reserved whenever he was blown away by Stiles’ stupidity. Well two can play that game.   

            “Yeah well at least I wasn’t gonna willingly jeopardize both of our lifestyles because of some cute guy that wouldn’t put out after one night.” He was not about to get the full blame of this, no way. Sure, he’d fucked up, but not too long ago, Isaac had been trying to convince them to stay all because he wanted a piece of ass. How is that any better?

            “Unlike _you_ , I didn’t do it without talking to you first,” Isaac closed his eyes, “We can’t run. Our files are in the FBI database, as soon as we cross borders and they start looking for you….”

            “You’re assuming the worse,” Stiles set a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, “Why would he suspect me?”

            “Because that guy didn’t die from an overdose, he died because of a snapped neck. The club was full of people, and the bartenders and the people- they’re gonna get questioned. And when they mention a guy with an upturned nose and a tight ass, that cop will think of _you_.”

            “Not if I get involved,” Stiles tightened his grip, “Cops don’t accuse their close friends, not as often.”

            “You’re not his close friend, you’re some dude he slept with,” Isaac snapped.

            “No, no, no,” Stiles laughed a little, “This is perfect! He practically asked me to wait for him to come back from work. I’ve only been gone an hour max. He’s still gone- I left his door unlocked, and I memorized the passkey to get into his apartment building. Listen, I’ll sneak back in, hear me out,” He shook Isaac a little to stop the eye rolling, “I sneak back in, get back in that bed, and I just give that guy the Stiles Love Express 101.”

            “I think you’re overestimating your seduction skills,” Isaac snorted.

            “Dude he was _fond_ of me after a few hours of fucking, this dude is susceptible to the Stiles.”

            “Way to make yourself sound like a disgusting infection.”

            “A _love_ _bug_.”

 

* * *

 

              It took compromise of course. Stiles had to concede Isaac’s right to call the caramel cutie from the bar, Scott. But that’s alright, because Stiles was snuggling into the sheets of that hot cop, and feeling oddly peaceful. There was a chance this was all going to hell, but he’d known the risks ever since he started this business. Now, he was going to take the risks and enjoy the _shit_ out of the benefits.

            He heard the click of the front door, and curled tighter around Derek’s pillow, ruffling his hair to better perfect the “slept in” state. He had dozed off for a little bit, woken only by his nerves an hour or so later. The footsteps came to a stop at the entrance of the bedroom. He could practically feel the stare, it gave him goosebumps. Stiles nearly held his breath as the cop approached, bending over Stiles and stroking down his cheek.

He let his eyelashes flutter as he yawned awake, rubbing his eyes as endearingly as possible, opening them to see the bemused face of the hot god that seemed only to become more attractive in daylight.

            “I didn’t know people could have minty morning breath,” Derek said quietly, breaking out in a wide grin when Stiles turned red and closed his mouth immediately.

            “Are you complaining that you didn’t get a wave of my hot breath at 11:45 in the morning?” Stiles recovered quickly, grumbling as he sat up. He felt boxed in by Derek’s imposing body standing right over him.

            “Trust me, I got the first wave in the morning when you decided to sleep with your mouth right next to my nose,” Derek teased, much less reserved than Stiles expected the guy to be after having a one nightstand with a random club-goer. Well, ex-one nightstand. “I promised you lunch, right? I’m starving- let’s head over to the diner a block away.”

            “Yeah- sure, uh. Just let me get dressed,” Stiles clambered out of the bed and started tugging on his clothes. He was keenly aware of being watched the entire time. Was it a cop thing or a Derek thing? The silent, intense staring was less off-putting than it should have been.

            They walked to the diner side by side, making mild small talk that grated on Stiles’ nerves. He had to actively suppress his need to jump from topic to topic, obscure things like circumcision or the collapse of the Soviet Union. Derek seemed to catch onto his subdued manner, and nudged him casually.

            “So,” He tilted his head, “You stayed. Why?”

            “Uh.” _Because I killed a rapist last night after weeks of tracking him and now I need to make sure you won’t consider me a suspect._ “You’re hot?” Derek snorted, glancing away.

            “I’m sure you’ve skipped out on plenty of hot men, can’t be the only reason,” He argued, opening the door to the diner.

            “I think you’re a little confused here, maybe last night caused a concussion, more for me than you. I’m not the sex god. Not many people want you to stay after doing it.” Stiles didn’t have to fake the slight hurt in the statement. He’d resigned himself to a life on the road, and with that came a string of single time lovers. The hot ones, which were most of them, rarely minded letting him go. He was cute, and in certain angles- handsome, but not enough to make equally attractive people try to keep him. The ease in which Derek had offered more had taken Stiles for a turn. A good turn.

            “Doing it.” Derek repeated with a raised eyebrow, taking barely a second to choose the booth and slide in. The waitress waved at them, he was probably a regular here. “Well, they’re idiots. And you’re attractive, but there’s more.”

            “More?” It was Stiles’ turned to look incredulous, “What makes you think that? For all you know, I’m a dick chasing gigolo with a life goal of chafing my knees on every possible carpet,” He shrugged, “Not that that’s particularly _wrong,_ seems like a fun way to live.” It was sadly most of his life, although the dick chasing was the second goal of life.

            Someone cleared their throat, and it wasn’t Derek. Oh.

            “What would you like to order, sweetie?” The middle-aged waitress asked, a wry smile on her lips. Derek was staring at his hands with pursed lips, obviously holding back a smirk.

            “Something I can shove into my mouth continuously until I choke and die.” _Here lies Stiles, died of mortification._

“Burgers and endless fries is what I can provide. I’m sure Derek can think of something too,” She smiled, completely nonchalant.

            “What?” He was shell-shocked, who was this wonderful woman?

            “Stop scaring my date, Carrie,” Derek shook his head, “I’ll have my usual.” She smiled, winked, and took away their untouched menus after taking their drink orders.

            “…Date, huh?” Stiles waggled his eyebrows.

            “Mm, don’t change the subject,” Derek leaned forward, all intense and eyebrows, “And a dick chasing gigolo with a life goal of chafing his knees on every possible carpet wouldn’t have wasted their time on another day with me. I only have one carpet.” Stiles choked on his water.

            “I don’t know what I’m more shocked by, your humor or the fact that you recited my exact words,” He joked.

            “I didn’t become a cop for my love of donuts,” Derek’s eyes glanced down at Stiles’ lips, “I’m good at recalling statements. Especially when it’s a cute guy who said them.”

            Right, Derek was a cop. The unease returned and Stiles felt himself sit back. Derek seemed to notice.

            “Something wrong?”

            “No, I- uh.” Stiles smiled hesitantly, “You just reminded me how much I like a guy in uniform.” It was a shitty excuse, but Derek didn’t push.

            The food came, and Stiles spent a solid five minutes teasing Derek about his healthy chicken sandwich and steamed vegetables. The reminder that this was a job, a chase, dragged down his mood throughout their meal. He covered it up the best he could, but the reality was: he very much wished this wasn’t a job, because Derek was kind of wonderful.


	2. Making a Difference

               One week in and Stiles was sweating. He might have been quick to assume that he’d be able to play the lying vixen with Derek. Not because Derek was catching on, more like Stiles wasn’t really acting anymore. Or ever. In fact, in the back of his mind, he knew that this was his own subconscious desire coming to fruition ever since he felt that cop plastered to his back. Isaac was happy as hell regardless, going out every day and gladly spending their substantial savings (thanks to what happened in Quantico).

               He’d lied to Derek and told him he worked as an IT specialist from home, which explained his oddly open hours for whenever his cop beau had time off. He spent his free time researching or ridiculing Isaac. He’d dug up everything he could on Derek Hale using the skin-deep resources (news articles, web entries, bios, open databases), but it was time to get into the good stuff. If things went south and it was life or death, Stiles would resort to blackmail. He’d like to think that after the list of kills he and Isaac had, they could manage some sociopathic tactics for survival. Still, the thought of turning to something so cruel was already giving Stiles a light stomach.

               He hadn’t asked too much about Isaac’s own adventures, not wanting to feel that inherent jealousy of the other’s carefree romance. In only one week, they’d both seen their new pals a whopping four times. It would be obnoxious if these meetings weren’t the highlight of the day. Odd that Isaac’s date schedule perfectly lined up to Stiles’ though, but that was filed away as suspicious coincidences.

               The computer pinged, indicating the second-tier search finished. He finished pushing the rest of the donut in his mouth, chewing noisily as he looked at the pulled-up records. Family in Beacon Hills? _Fuck_. How hadn’t he made the connection? The Hales had been in Beacon Hills for decades, and Derek seemed to live right in the middle of high school. Stiles had gone to school with his little sister and brother, even his younger cousins, they’d been violent, snarky, and abusive. He’d had a crush on every single one of them. If Stiles believed in fate, he would have been feeling very creeped out.

               Laura used to live in New York, and apparently, Erica Reyes- Wait. He leaned closer to the screen. No way, Erica? And Boyd? And Scott McCall was… his best friend from first grade, and Derek’s police partner.

               “What the _fuck_.” This was a conspiracy; how did he randomly land himself in an updated version of Beacon Hills circa 2000? He was getting the cold sweats, standing up and walking around to shake off his nerves. He hadn’t even recognized Scott at the club…

               “Isaac’s dating Scott!” The strangled shriek that left Stiles made the apartment neighbor bang on the wall next to him.

* * *

 

               “Stop tugging at my scarf,” Isaac swatted at Scott’s insistent hand, although he gladly went along when he was pulled in for a kiss. They were lounging under a tree in a park, and it was so sickeningly sweet that Isaac hated himself a little. The affection in Scott’s eyes drowned out that feeling though, and he found himself playing into his high school fantasy. Giggling like a school girl, blushing from holding hands as if he hadn’t been calling himself a dick expert a few weeks ago, it was the most alive he’d felt in years. Then his phone started ringing.

               “Shit, sorry, gotta take this,” He smiled at Scott, who just nodded and sat up. Isaac answered curtly, “Yeah?”

               “You freaking _idiot_!” Stiles cursed through the phone. “He’s a cop!”

               “We’ve established that,” Isaac rolled his eyes, smiling when Scott made a questioning expression.

               “No, not Derek,” Stiles voice quieted to a low growl, “Your Scott is Derek’s Scott- as in his _partner_.” Isaac went silence, trying to keep his face from reacting. He glanced at Scott and offered a smile, while on the inside, his brain was in mayhem.

               “Thanks, I’ll get right on it,” Isaac said calmly, hanging up and turning to Scott, “Lunch has been great,” He kissed Scott on the cheek, “I just got called in for some consulting, I’m heading out.”

               “Oh, okay!” Scott beamed, a ray of sunshine made Isaac go blind for a millisecond, “I’ll walk you to the subway.”

* * *

 

               “So, we’re both idiots, is the takeaway,” Isaac sighed, leaning his head back on the couch and staring at the ceiling. “I think it’s karma. What are the chances?”

               “Pretty damn high apparently.” Stiles was busy packing an emergency bag. Well, a new one. The extra emergency bag. The chances of this going to shit just doubled.

               “You have to avoid Erica and Boyd,” Isaac glanced at Stiles, “They were there during high school. They’ll know right away.”

               “Thanks for the obvious advice,” Stiles muttered, “It’s not like that was the first thought I had.”

               “You’re such a little bitch.” They slapped at each other for a few minutes, slap fights always relieved some tension. Afterwards, they sat side by side, staring bleakly at the wall together. This was their fifth year on the run. Stiles ran through every possible thing they could have done instead of this: graduate college, get married, travel Europe, adopt several puppies, spend every birthday with his Dad. It made him curl in on himself some more, and Isaac shuffled closer, pressing a comforting line to his side. They’d both left behind their entire lives, though Stiles had several more ties back in Beacon Hills.

               “I think it’s right.” When he spoke, Isaac jolted from the break in silence.

               “What is?”

               “This. What we do. And this situation, the consequences.” Because it was. They deserved some trouble, with their line of work.

               “You giving up?” The nervousness was inching back into Isaac’s demeanor.

               “No, you idiot,” Stiles scoffed, “As if I’d give in that easy. I just mean, it’s been five years. What did you expect? We survived worse, and if this does us in…Well, we made a difference, y’know?”

               “Yeah.” The clock on the wall gave a weary tic, “I know.”

* * *

 

               Then Derek was there again, the usual barely there smile and kind eyes. Stiles liked to wonder how it was that a man that saw countless crimes could still look so content. He couldn’t relate. Derek wrapped an arm around his shoulders as they walked and he let his mind wander; it was a companionable silence. He had a hard time looking in the mirror sometimes, reconciliation of what he’d become was difficult, and not much could remedy it. Isaac was going through the same process, the threshold of what to leave behind and what to become.

               He emerged from his thoughts when Derek said something, blinking a few times. He made a ‘repeat that’ motion and Derek sighed as if it was a terribly difficult task.

               “The book shop,” He repeated, “Care to stop by with me? I need to get some new material.”

               “You still shop for physical books?” Stiles hadn’t owned an actual book since the days of textbooks. EBooks were his personal best friends. “Where do you keep them? I only saw one bookshelf in your apartment.” Derek looked embarrassed for a second, looking elsewhere.

               “I have a storage unit.”

               “You have a _what_?” He stared at the other. Surely, he’d misheard.

               “A storage unit. I ah…Modeled it to look like a library and I put the books I buy in there.” Derek seemed to school his features, trying to act like he was just a sophisticated individual.

               “That is by far the nerdiest,” Stiles grinned, “And _sexiest_ thing anyone has ever said.” The surly cop made a strangled noise when he started nudging him and waggling his eyebrows. “Any chance you’ll do me in your grand library, Sir Derek?”

               “You’re disturbed,” Derek remarked, tugging Stiles into the humble bookstore. There was a moment where they both just took in the new environment. The smell of the used pages, the slight sour note from the older books, the warmth of the rickety heater blowing air at them from above: it was wonderful. They drifted apart naturally, moving towards the current that called to them most.

               It was the magic of literature that edged Stiles to the fairytale section. His dexterous fingers ran along the brittle spines of familiar titles, his late mother’s voice echoing in his ear. He finally grabbed one, the urge unstoppable, and gently opened it. There was a lump in his throat as he read the title over, and over. He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder, turning to see Derek.

               “The Little Prince? Interesting,” Derek looked at the book intently, as if it was a mini-Stiles. His other arm was laden with three solid books, each obscure and foreign. Stiles squinted and realized they were in Spanish.

               “Really?” Stiles pointed at Derek’s books with an indignant expression, “How could you keep your multi-lingual skills from me? This is what we need to spice it up.”

               “It’s been a week and a half, if we’re running out of spice already, I’d be concerned.” Derek seemed to be growing accustomed to Stiles’ brand of exaggeration. He was particularly good at talking succinctly. Every sentence out of Derek seemed to be compact with information. The man was a walking zip file of sarcasm, dorky hobbies, and a shallow mask of sexy and “mysterious”. After the things Stiles had read in the database, there wasn’t much mysterious about him.

               “Do you usually go clubbing?” Stiles blurted out before his brain could catch up. What was he doing? The whole point of this mess was to take attention _away_ from that night, and yet, here his dumbass was, asking stupid questions (stupid questions that he really wanted the answer to). Derek wasn’t very sexually driven. So far, he seemed the sort to go looking for dates in cafes or libraries rather than a crowded, musty smelling, glory hole residence. And yet, that’s exactly where Derek had been, and he’d seemed so very confident.

               Derek’s eyebrows did a funny thing then, some sort of shake and twerk that made Stiles snort. He was silent, not immediately answering. He took his time, buying his books, thanking the tiny shopkeeper, and walking outside. Stiles didn’t interrupt the process, finding it too amusing to watch the long pondering for such a simple question.

               “…Yes and no,” Derek admitted hesitantly, sneaking a glance at Stiles.

               “Oh, come on,” Stiles groaned, “You can’t put me through that tortured silence and just give me _that_.” Derek ducked his head in response, smiling a bit.

               “I don’t like clubbing.” So, Stiles was right in that assumption, “But I have to go for certain operations. Work.” That was… not what he was expecting. Work. Undercover police work. A chill ran down Stiles’ spine and he had to bite his tongue from prying deeper. Instead, he steered the conservation away.

               “I was work?” He feigned offense, “Because you looked to be having a hell of a fun time with me.”

               “Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life,” Derek responded dryly.

               “…Now,” Stiles grinned, “There’s only two ways to interpret that. Either you’re saying you love me or having sex with strangers under the ruse of work is what you love.” Derek started flipping through one of his books.

               “Definitely the latter, I’m a big fan of STD Russian Roulette. It’s what the cool kids do these days.”

               “The “cool kids”, god,” Stiles cackled, “You’re such an old man.”

               They walked together to Derek’s apartment. When Stiles flopped on the couch with his limbs strewn about, Derek barely batted an eyelash. He shoved over the other enough to squeeze in next to him, and replaced his feet on his lap.

               “Gonna give me a massage?” Stiles wriggled his toes, simultaneously flipping through the channels on the TV. Derek just pinched a pinky toe, making the other yelp.

               “No, I was just sleepy and knew your smelly feet could knock me out best.” How did he ever think this behemoth was incapable of humor? Stiles grumbled but didn’t move, and Derek eventually started massaging his feet. The feeling of his hands pressing and prodding along his tired, achy bones was indescribable.

               “I’d return the favor, but there’s no way I can reciprocate to this level of foot massage- _yes, that’s the spot_.”

               “You’re as bad as Laura,” Derek chuckled, and Stiles perked up at the offered information, “She used to drag me out of my room whenever she had a long work day, and make me give her massages while she ate everything in the kitchen.”

               “Laura?” Stiles feigned ignorance, letting his voice betray some level of jealousy. Obviously, Laura was Laura Hale, the oldest sister.

               “Nothing like that, my older sister,” Derek shrugged, “She’s been missing for a few years, she used to live with me, is all.” That hadn’t been in the file at all- in fact, the file on Laura Hale had been very clear that she’d moved to some state in the Midwest. Stiles made a note to do some more research on her, his curiosity piqued.

               “Sorry, shouldn’t have brought it up.” Derek waved away the concerns, expression somber as he stared at the TV screen.

               “I’ve mourned her, I mean- you don’t go missing that long and stay alive. I just wish there was _some_ clue… It’s nothing, let’s move on.” He grabbed the remote from Stiles, who didn’t put up a fight, and switched to Nickelodeon. Spongebob’s hideous laughter filled the room, and Derek purposely kept his eyes glue to the TV- not wanting to see Stiles’ both stupefied and disgusted expression.

               It took fifteen minutes before Stiles was mouthing along to the words, perfectly in sync and memorized. Now, Derek was the one horrified at the turn of events. He reached to change the channel, but Stiles snatched away the remote, still speaking in tandem with Spongebob. It was something straight out of a horror movie, and Derek wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

               “Please, for the love of god,” He begged, but all that did was make Stiles laugh for a second before getting back to it.

               “Listen up!” Stiles mimicked, “Mr. Krabs? He’s deceiving ya! Reach into his pocket now and take what he’s go- Ack!” He was interrupted by Derek’s massive form flopping on him. The air got knocked out of him, and he was left wheezing and guffawing simultaneously. Derek made some sort of low wail, and the TV was turned off in favor of apologizing for putting the poor man through that experience. It was heartfelt and comedic, and the sadness that clung to Derek from Laura’s memory lightened just a bit in response.

* * *

 

               “Stop checking your phone,” Stiles muttered to Isaac, elbowing him hard in the side, “They’re not going to approach you if you have the-…Ugh.” He rolled his eyes when Isaac made that stupid “Scott is texting me” face. It was like high school all over again, but _worse_. Eventually, Isaac did put the phone away. The man was back in the bar.

               They’d been using their time wisely talking to the prostitutes. The streetwalkers never snitched, not on their own. Stiles and Isaac were their own (their own cops, so to say). And when these same walkers were asked about the guys they wouldn’t mind never seeing again, they gladly pointed their fingers.

               He was a real piece of work, that was for sure. Isaac had concurred to mark him as their target. They hadn’t been stupid enough to choose the same bar either, the guy was a regular at a bar an hour out of the city. A real dive, and out of Derek and Scott’s jurisdiction. The police force there didn’t bother checking on the shit he’d done, and now Stiles was going to personally see that fixed.

               Four men raped, two beaten half to death, and this guy still walked around without a care in the world. He was the sort that didn’t get better, like a pedophile. Just sick, twisted, and unwilling to get help or just _leave_. Stiles was familiar with that mind.

               They watched him like predators, looking for any holes in his routine they could use to their advantage. He walked with a swagger, and the wary faces of the bartenders suggested he wasn’t on good terms with them either. An all-around shit head, nobody would come looking for him if he was gone. No ring on his finger, no texts on his phone, the guy had nothing but lust going for him. He approached some kid, scrawny, probably just turned legal, and was turned away. His jaw ticked, and he looked like he wanted to put up a fight, but something made him give up. The eyes on him, the bartenders were staring at him, he wouldn’t make a scene unless he felt vindicated. He wouldn’t pursue unless he would get some sort of satisfaction from it.

               “You know what to do,” Stiles whispered in Isaac’s ear, “Isolate yourself.”

               It was a common trick, useful at luring the worst. Isaac pulled away from Stiles and moved to the edge of the bar, just out of the bartender’s sight. He stood there, nursing his drink and looking as defenseless as possible- which was very easy for him to do, considering his big eyes and cherub curled hair. As soon as he made eye contact with the target, Stiles counted the seconds down before Isaac was approached.

               He watched the exchange, checking for any signs of aggression in case he had to step in early. Nothing yet, amicable talking, intense flirting, but Isaac took it like a pro. He played the part of meek prey, dropping hints that he’d come alone and was new to the area. It was disturbing how quickly the target’s face brightened, and he started urging for more. Hand on the arm, insistent pushing and as they left, Isaac made the signal for Stiles to follow inconspicuously.

               Stiles kept to the shadows as they exited the bar, watching Isaac stumble along “drunkenly” while the guy kept a quick pace, never letting go. They weren’t going behind the building, and Stiles made notes of location. There were no alleys around the bar, the area closer to rural than the grid-system New York was. So where was Isaac being taken?

               His answer came when the man stopped at his car, shoving Isaac inside. He’d parked along the street, vehicle hidden under the draping tree shadows. Isaac began resisting, the “I changed my mind” moment, and Stiles was right behind them, watching the exchange. This was considered the final redemption moment (but they never redeemed themselves).

               “I don’t… feel good,” Isaac slurred, continuing his ruse, trying to break the hold on his wrist. “I wanna go home.”

               “You’ll go home when I’m done,” The man grunted, pushing Isaac down onto his back forcefully and starting on his jeans. When Isaac moved to sit up, the man raised his fist to strike him and Stiles made his move. He slammed his knee between the man’s spread legs, wrapping an arm around his throat in a chokehold. Stiles dragged back the disoriented man, letting Isaac climb out of the car. “ _What_ -“

               “You’re not a very good listener,” Isaac murmured, flicking out the switchblade. Stiles laughed as the struggling began anew, and jammed his toe into the back of the rapist’s knee, bringing him down and using his other hand to hold his own blade up to his throat. He jerked his head back to bare the tender flesh better, “I thought I told you I wanted to go home?”

               “Please, I- I got a wife, kids to- “

               “ _Liar_ ,” Stiles hissed pressing the sharp edge against the throbbing jugular.

               “What do you want?!” The man’s voice was becoming strangled, high pitched, so very different from the self-assured tone it had been before, “I have money, just take my wallet.”

               “Oh, we will,” Isaac leaned down, “Now, don’t make a sound. You can go when I’m done.” Before anything else could be said, Isaac jammed the blade into his gut. The stainless steel sliced into the gelatinous flesh like butter, and before a sound could leave the warped mouth of the predator, Stiles punctured his throat, right into his vocal cords. They both stepped away immediately, straightening and glancing at one another. They usually tried to keep from messes, but their technique worked well enough to minimize blood spatter.

               The man made pathetic noises, gurgling and sobbing all the same. Stiles couldn’t find it in himself to care, holding up the wallet he’d taken from him, “Guy’s got forty bucks on him.” He snorted.

               “Let’s go,” Isaac took the wallet from Stiles and they both started their trek back to their rented car.

               “You know, you’d think people would question the leather gloves more,” Stiles remarked, wriggling his fingers, “Why else would someone wear these things to a bar unless they were gonna murder someone?”

               “To be edgy?”

               “True.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's easy to forget that vigilantes aren't as good as we hope they are.


	3. Seeing Our Differences

              “Is this really a smart idea?” Isaac asked, watching Stiles struggle with packing the giant Tupperware of chicken breast and quinoa. It was meant to look as homemade as possible (he’d gotten it from the gluten free shop five minutes from his apartment).

               “I need to make sure the trail has gone dry on us,” Stiles muttered, finally forcing the food in and clasping the lid shut. He shoved it into his backpack and smiled at Isaac triumphantly, “And what’s a better way to manage that than some adorable lunch with the _boo_?”

               “You’re definitely gonna scare him away,” Isaac pulled out his phone, immediately brightening up when he saw that he’d received a text message from Scott. Who else would it be from? Isaac had absolutely no friends.

              Stiles just rolled his eyes and returned to his task at hand. How was he going to do this as cutely as possible? He took a moment to go to the bathroom mirror and practice some innocent looks. He channeled his inner Isaac, fluttered his eyelashes, and immediately felt repulsed by the image before him. Horrifying.

               “This might be harder than I thought,” Stiles rubbed the back of his head, walking back to Isaac. “It’s been like- three weeks, that’s enough time for me to bring him lunch, right?”

               “Yeah, of course.”

               “Really?” Stiles let out a sigh of relief.

               “No.” Isaac’s smug expression did nothing to abate the self-doubt that was firmly nested in Stiles’ gut. “You made a dumb plan, now stick to it. Maybe he’ll find your creepiness endearing. Obviously, he has shitty taste from the get-go.”

               “I get it. You’re sexually frustrated because Scott is saving himself for marriage. Don’t take it out on me, blue balls.” He deftly avoided an irritated swipe from the curled cunt he had decided to partner himself with.

              He’d spent hours trying to get a better grip on their situations. With each passing day, more information slipped past their control. For all he knew, they’d found his finger prints somewhere, somehow. The one thing worse than being tracked by  some group of officers trying to arrest you was not knowing if there was a group of officers trying to arrest you. And until he figured that out, he would be the nervous wreck that had Isaac threatening to strangle him every few hours. Not like Isaac _could_ strangle him, he was way too wily for such an easy end.

            In fact, he prided himself on his newfound ability in hand to hand combat. Stiles couldn’t even denote to a particular training or event that gave him his skills, but the multiple occasions to use it had definitely helped. Back in high school, his father would always subtly mention when the station was hosting self-defense seminars. Stiles never said no, because how could he? Only a cruel, shit-ass son wouldn’t attend an event his dad put together in his spare time. It’s not like he was Jackson Whittemore or something (a very extremely sized douche from a rich family). So, he’d attended the seminars every month, gotten his ass kicked by determined single moms and bored high school girls, until one day he actually started trying. Obviously, not in self-defense class. Truth be told, his dad asked him to come to be used as a practice dummy. To be fair, after the shit he’d seen, he completely didn’t mind being bruised up by a couple of women if it meant they could feel that much safer.

            Then came the kickboxing classes, which is how he’d met Vernon Boyd, and eventually Erica Reyes. It had been surreal, walking in and seeing the quiet guy absolutely _destroying_ a punching bag. He remembered how weak he’d been, and how completely terrified he was at the thought of being on receiving end of those fists. Even after _weeks_ of training with the behemoth of a man, he’d never figured out if they were friends. He could have been channeling his inner Bo Burnham or Eddie Murphy and he’d _still_ only get the barest of a smile from Boyd. At one point he’d asked if the other had gotten punched in the face so hard that he’d forever sprained his Risorious Muscle (one of the smiling muscles). Boyd hadn’t found that very funny, so the following hour was spent making sure Stiles beat the world record for “almost vomiting but not because everything hurts and my body is dying”.

            Erica had joined much later, sickly and frail. He’d never seen such a gentle touch from Boyd before, but it was instantaneous. He’d even been jealous. _Erica_ didn’t have to worry about having 911 on speed dial in case the class strangled the life out of her.

            Except she did, because she was epileptic, which made Stiles feel like the lowest piece of trash in the world for ever having the thought. The first time she’d seized during training, he’d been frozen, watching her writhe. Boyd was at her side the second it happened, cushioning her head during the thrashes.  It had been the step towards something new. She didn’t return for weeks, not until he and Boyd had both showed up at her house (although, thinking back on it, he totally ruined what could have been a “Notebook” moment). After the tears and the smoothed fears, the tight grip she’d had on them both when they were forced into a group hug, the resolve in her eyes had hardened. Stiles hadn’t seen a woman as beautiful as Erica in that moment (not since his mother was alive); it was like seeing a tree revive right after Winter.

            God, the friendship they’d had. At times, he’d felt like a severe third wheel, but there were these rare moments where it felt like he’d found his safety net. At sixteen years, his chest filled with warmth that hadn’t visited him since. His father’s face flashed in his mind, snapping him out of his thoughts.

            He was at the front of the station, backpack slung on his shoulder. Stiles barely remembered the entire trip there. The difference between the NYPD Station and the tiny branch in Beacon Hills was staggering. Stiles stared up at the big, block letters, feeling so very inferior at that moment. He’d never had the balls to just walk up to his ongoing hunters. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and began forward with a determined edge: time to be the detective his father wished he’d been.

            The innocent smile he’d prepared to charm the front desk secretary was wasted when he came face to face with a security check that put even the TSA to shame. Two stern looking officers sat behind a lifted counter, physically empowering themselves as well. It did the trick, Stiles felt like a flea, a tiny nuisance that could easily be squashed. That is, unless he burrowed deep enough into the tender skin of the dog hunting him.

            The process was long. Especially when he tried to explain that he wanted to see Derek- who of course, was out. Then he had to show the food at the safety check. It was all much less romantic than he’d hoped it would be. When he finally made it into the sea of officer desks, all out in an open area, some stress eased out of his shoulders. Finding Derek’s desk from the vague instructions given had him wandering about like some lost child. With his backpack and skinny jeans, the officers present glanced at him like he was some rambunctious youth.

            He approached a desk with Derek’s name sitting on it. It didn’t have a single file out of place. Of course, the one desk that was neurotically clean would be the one he needed to snoop. He walked over and sat in the visitor chair, pulling out the Tupperware and waiting. Eventually, the eyes on him drifted away. With his look it was easy to be written off as a troubled teen; a street rat that was coming to thank the benevolent cop that had helped him out.

            Stiles tried his best to keep his lips from curling in disgust. He had to remind himself that he didn’t hate cops, just the idea of them. He stood up once the coast was clear, casually tugging at some drawers. All but one was locked, probably files with no sensitive information. He set them on the table and spread them out slowly, reading them from under his lashes. Unbeknownst to him, two pairs of eyes watched him.

 

 

            It had been a big step, moving to New York fresh out of high school. Boyd had been willing to uproot everything. She’d had a harder time. Stiles had disappeared, along with that quiet boy, Isaac. He’d left her, and took with him the delicate home they’d had. As usual, she’d had to deal with an aftermath of an uncontrollable mayhem. Boyd had been there, though. Boyd was always there for her.

            Just like he was right now, letting her crush his hand until his thick bones creaked with the force.

            “Is that…?” She whispered.

            “Yeah,” Boyd replied quietly, eyes trained on the ghost shuffling through an officer’s desk.

            “He’s different,” Erica remarked, lip quivering with some mixture of rage and shock.

            “Still a little bastard,” Boyd snorted, “Still just as curious.”

            It felt like hours went by as they discovered their new favorite documentary: A wild Stiles, spotted in the jungles of the NYPD. He was trying to be nonchalant, but it was obvious he was searching for something. The detective instinct they’d honed was diluted by their conflicted elation. How does one react to the reappearance of a fondly remembered specter?

            For Erica, it meant ripping her hand away and starting the prowl. Her casual dress denoted her role in the department: missing persons and undercover. And this was most certainly a missing persons case. His broad back looked like a blank canvas, but she could see the hunch to it. There was a painted history that had been etched in the last, hidden years.

 

 

            “Looking for something, Stilinski?”

            Her voice had struck him as abruptly as an ice pick to the base of the skull. Every lurid and conniving bone in his body seemed to disappear, his mind flinching as if dragged back to its sixteen-year-old form. The edge to her words didn’t escape his attention. He straightened mechanically, his hand falling away from the papers. His eyes caught hers, and he immediately looked away. The quick retort he always had was nowhere to be found.

            “Just browsing.” Was all he could manage, his tongue feeling too large for his mouth.

            “Right, looking for some backbone, maybe?” She offered, pretending to help him look for a second. “Ah, guess you can’t lose what you never had.”

            It hurt to hear the words, even if he’d said them to himself every single day.

            “I was going to come back.”

            “Your lying hasn’t improved.” Somehow, seeing Boyd didn’t make it worse. He’d known they’d be here. Stiles had known the risk, and yet he’d come. In all honesty, he’d probably done this with self-sabotage in mind.

            “Never knew reunions could be so- uh, melancholy,” Stiles coughed out, finally getting some feeling back in his numb body. Humor was the first defense to go up, “No hugs?”

            “Oh, hugs! Right, I forgot what those were. What is a hug, Boyd?” Erica’s bright red lips were stretched in a predatorial smile, “Is it that thing you do to people who don’t walk out of your life without a word?”

            Boyd didn’t respond, just stood like a statue, offering his solidarity to the woman beside him.

            “I know what I did was-“

            “Oh, fuck off. I don’t have time for your skin-deep, Hallmark bullshit. Go ahead and buy me a “Terribly Sorry for Abandoning You” card at CVS, instead,” She snapped, “What are you doing here?”

            “Just wanted to drop off Derek’s lunch,” He muttered, motioning to the dull dish, “Didn’t know it would lead to this unlawful interrogation.”

            “I’ll give you a lawful one if you don’t give me a good reason why you were looking at confidential files,” She stepped forward, and to her credit, Stiles took an unconscious step back. Erica had always held a power that could move a mountain.

 

 

            “I must have left them out on my desk.”

            “Derek,” Stiles said his name like the sweetest prayer, “I was just bringing you lunch.”

            “Hey,” Derek stepped in between the confrontation, wrapping arm around Stiles, “I appreciate it. You know each other?” He looked from Stiles to Erica and Boyd, brows raised expectantly.

            “Knew.” Boyd spoke curtly.

            “We knew him. Congrats, good to see you unwinding.” Erica bit out at Derek, eyes still on Stiles, “We have a case. Be seeing you.” She turned away, leaving quickly with Boyd in tow.

            “I’m guessing you guys didn’t end on good terms?” Derek couldn’t help but note the shaken state Stiles was in. He’d never seen the other lose his composure before. When he looked at those bowed lips and expressive eyes, he forgot how little he knew of the lively man before him. What felt like years of emotional cohabitation was only a few weeks of infrequent dates.

            “Sensitive subject,” Stiles’ tightlipped smile was hardly reassuring, but Derek knew when to drop it. “I brought you lunch, hope you’re hungry.” The forced cheer didn’t help the atmosphere, but it was better not to dwell.

            “I was actually about to call you to see if you wanted to get lunch,” He picked up the container, shaking the contents, “I hope you brought something for yourself, because I already know you would never eat this.”

 

 

            “I- uh… No. I was just gonna dip out and leave this here for you to come back to,” Stiles sheepishly zipped up his backpack, “Nice suit, as usual.” The sleek lines accentuated Derek’s form just the right way. He’d have made a great CEO, or a model. Or anything. So why did he have to be a detective? Because fate hated Stiles with the visceral disgust of a mortal enemy, that’s why.

            “You know how I feel about eating lunch alone,” Derek took Stiles’ hand in his, tilting his head toward the exit, “Let’s go and eat on the benches. We’ll pick you up something on the way.”

            “I’d probably be bad company,” Stiles stared at their joined hands, licking his dry lips.

            “Let’s talk,” Derek urged, leaving the Tupperware behind as he began walking, “We can eat later.”

            Stiles allowed himself to be pulled along. He wanted to talk. He _needed_ to talk. But what the hell could he say? This wasn’t Isaac. He didn’t want Isaac, either. Derek had him. His shoulders were set, but his eyes were kind, and it made Stiles want to melt into him. Within the last few minutes, he remembered what it was to miss a past he’d willingly thrown away. Unlike previous instances, regret was at the forefront of his mind.

            Stepping into the crisp Autumn air rejuvenated him, at least enough to face the man beside him. His nose tingled along with his lips. He was even more appreciative of Derek’s generous warmth at that moment. The quiet calm only last for a second or two, and then Derek was looking at him expectantly, waiting until he found the will to break the silence. There was a lull in the crowd, the lot in front of the station clear and barren.

            “I used to live in Beacon Hills,” Stiles admitted, squeezing back when the grip on his hand tightened, “My dad is Sheriff Stilinski.”

            Derek didn’t respond, but his shock was obvious. To his credit, he kept it well hidden, his eyes were completely focused on Stiles. The pressure to speak urged Stiles to keep going.

            “Erica and Boyd were my friends in high school,” He didn’t add his friendships with the Hale family. That was for another time, “We were pretty close. At least, me and Erica were. Boyd was a good neutral party. Senior year came and…” His throat felt swollen, and doubt stole the words from him. Stiles made the mistake of making eye contact with Derek’s intense gaze. He lost his composure for a moment, before continuing on, “We were at a party on graduation night. It was hosted by some rich snob, and there were all sorts there. Someone brought drugs, someone snitched, and my dad shows up.”

            He had to pause when an officer slipped past him and walked into the department.

            “Same someone who brought the drugs also brought a gun, because of course. And he just starts shooting, just goes crazy. He gets my dad, misses me, hits a few friends, then he's gone. Had a getaway car ready- and the police were too _stupid_ to...” He stopped himself, coming back to reality. Derek shrugged, communicating that he wasn’t going to take something like this personal. “I couldn’t handle it. My dad was in the hospital, the bills were piling up, and if I was around I’d just give him more trouble. So, I left as soon as I could.”

            “Your mom?”

            “Died a long time ago.” Derek looked abashed for a moment at the blunt response, but recovered quickly enough to press a soft kiss to Stiles’ forehead. He didn’t give any cheap condolences, and for that, Stiles was grateful. However, it didn’t relieve the churning in his stomach, the contempt brewing inside; his white lies would satisfy Derek. But placating the man who offered his unbiased ear with shallow truths would haunt Stiles for a long while.

            Not everything was a bold-faced lie, the bare facts were there. His father was shot, the man responsible had fled the police, and Stiles had left Beacon Hills. Those weren’t the reasons he left. There were some things he couldn’t say. He couldn’t jeopardize the mission. Stiles had sunk too much of his life into this for a pair of hazel eyes to bring him to his knees.

            “This doesn’t change anything,” Derek rubbed Stiles’ back gently, pulling him in for a one-armed hug, “It only helps me understand. And if your constant prying has taught me anything, it’s better to know more than less.”

            Stiles felt overwhelmed. He didn’t deserve this, Derek didn’t deserve this either. A surge of impulse had him pulling Derek down for a rough kiss. He could feel the initial stiffness from the other, but almost immediately it was gone. Two arms twined around him and pulled him tight, safe. Their chapped lips stung but refused to part until Stiles felt his tumultuous emotions had calmed. When they parted, Derek rubbed his cheek along his own. The friction of his beard made Stiles smile inadvertently, and he set his hands onto Derek’s shoulders. His long fingers danced against the soft flesh of his throat.

_He twisted sharply, snapping the neck of the man focused on Isaac. The pop was short, but satisfying. The death was instantaneous, and the corpse went tumbling down. Relief spread through his chest. Another one gone. Shame they didn’t have time to punish him more._

            He jolted back, scrambling away from Derek, eyes searching for any proof that he’d gone through with it, that he’d hurt him. There was nothing except for a confused expression.

            “Stiles?” Derek asked cautiously, stepping forward. It only served to make the jumpy man flinch violently.

            “Sorry, I…need to leave,” Stiles’ voice shook, and he was running before Derek could stop him.

            Derek watched him go somberly. He touched his throat, still feeling those fingers daintily caressing him.

 

 

            “We need to go,” Stiles blurted as he walked into the empty apartment. Isaac was gone, probably to go see Scott. He felt helplessness overtake him and he stumbled to the kitchen. He hadn’t cried in years, but the sting of hot tears pressing behind his eye sockets warned that the streak would be broken. He tried to pour himself water with shaking hands, only succeeded in growing more frustrated and throwing the glass into the sink. The shatter did nothing to appease his blistering unease. He knew what this was, and he dreaded it. The motley of anxiety, fear, rage, insecurity, and every other detrimental sensation erupted and he collapsed against the counter. The sob that escaped him nearly flattened him to the floor with its weight. He felt like a child again, a slave to his emotions, and a helpless bystander to the violent tears bursting out of him.

            “I can’t…I can’t,” He wheezed to himself, a combination of tears, gasps, and pumping adrenaline, pushing him into the panic attack he’d been waiting for. Stiles clawed at his pocket and pulled out his phone, everything was blurry but he managed to press a contact to call. He only had a solid three contacts, so it was a one in three chance he picked the right one.

            “Is everything okay?” No, no, no, not Derek. But he was too far gone, just about hyperventilating. “Stiles, breathe, what’s wrong?” There was a frantic edge in the officer’s words now.

            “Pan...Panic attack. Derek, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” He repeated, guilt wrecking his voice, “I didn’t mean to call you.”

            “No, don’t hang up,” Derek’s voice took a stern and commanding tone, and it stopped Stiles’ shaking hands in their tracks, “Lie down on the floor, get as comfortable as possible, and wait for me. What is your address?”

            “I’m fine, please,” But he followed the other’s strict instructions. The directions were the only order in the current chaos he was drowning in. He pressed his cheek to the cold linoleum, the phone in a death grip against his ear.

            “Address, Stiles. I’m in the car.” Stiles shut his eyes and spouted his address without a second thought. Derek didn’t hang up the entire drive. He listened to Stiles shaky breaths, and started talking about the oddest things. If he had been in a better mindset, Stiles would have been in awe of the willing word vomit exiting Derek.

            He lost time, the world seeming to freeze for hours and start again randomly. Stiles didn’t move an inch from where he was curled up. When Derek’s phone call disconnected, it felt like he was in a vacuum, alone.

            Almost immediately, Derek was there helping him up. Stiles caught sight of the open front door(he’d left it open in his frazzled state). It wasn’t until he was on the couch, cradled against Derek’s firm body, that he realized that Derek had been speaking to him the entire time. His whispers of, “I’m here”, and “You’re okay,” had been treated as pleasant white noise. Stiles wasn’t crying anymore, but he felt wrung dry. It seemed like ages even though, logically, no more than an hour had passed since he’d entered the apartment. His eyes slid shut, and when he opened them, it was later in the day.

            Stiles tried to sit up, but was halted by the tight hold on him. Derek was still there, and asleep. Shame immediately took its hold on Stiles and he began carefully extracting himself from the other’s hold. His plan failed when the arms tightened once more, and Derek’s eyes eased open.

            “Hey,” Derek spoke softly, as if Stiles was an easily triggered animal.

            “So, how was that lunch date?” Stiles croaked, knowing he looked as pitiful as he felt. Derek huffed slightly, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

            “Had worse.”

            “You have shitty dates then.”

            Derek nodded in agreement.

            “You worried me,” His thumb lingered over the dried tear tracks on the other’s gaunt cheek. “I should have come with you.”

            “No, I was… I thought my roommate would be home. I just figured this wasn’t something we should do so soon.” He felt the need to cover himself, to find some way to shield his splayed open self from roaming eyes. Stiles hadn’t ever been so exposed, not during sex or otherwise. He was completely bare and weak.

            “I don’t know what “this” is,” Derek continued caressing Stiles in small motions, brushing his hair back, “But it looks like I didn’t help with pushing the talk. I have my own baggage, and you didn’t go running when you saw some of that either. I think you need to realize we aren’t normal.”

            Stiles couldn’t help but laugh. No, they certainly weren’t. People didn’t do this kind of shit so soon, or ever. And normal people certainly weren’t sick, twisted serial killers taking advantage of kind cops. He leaned back, grabbing Derek’s hands with his own and holding them close. He couldn’t leave anymore. He was finished. It would be a willing defeat if at the hands of the man in front of him.

            “I’m really glad you decided to plow me that night.” Stiles said earnestly, just to see the crinkled eyes and the rabbit toothed laugh he was coming to love.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been awhile, and my semester is finishing up- but I tried to keep this chapter as organized as possible. Apologies for the rushed art and any errors in the chapter. I'd use an excuse like "oh my life is hectic" or "I have a cute dog that distracts me a lot", but the truth is that 
> 
> I bought too many video games and got distracted. Mmm...Mass Effect Andromeda....Nier Automata... + my job + full time student... = bad life decisions and staying up till 5 am to romance a weird cat squid alien creature.


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